


Pail Shenanigans

by deletable_bird



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Arguing, Banter, Blow Jobs, Bulges, Bulges and Nooks, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hand Jobs, Human/Troll Relationship, Insults, M/M, Oneshot, Orgasm, Pailing, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Sleepy Cuddles, Xeno, Xenophilia, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deletable_bird/pseuds/deletable_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Sir John! That’s a vessel meant for troll ejaculatory purposes you’re holding!”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Dave takes advantage of Karkat and then gets what's coming to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pail Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drop It Like It's Hot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/184750) by [roachpatrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol). 



> yes i am still working on Gray and Red i was just in need of some smutspiration for writer's block and i had this half-written already so

Communal Cleaning Day (invented by Jade, of course), in which whoever can be found scrubs down as much of the house as they can handle once a week, would have been your least favorite day but for one thing.

“Aren’t they like . . . troll condoms?” John asks, holding up the bucket with a goofy kind of nose-wrinkle thing going on. Jade lets out a muffled giggle mixed with a gag and Rose looks up from the dishes she’s piling on the “clean” side of the kitchen sink with a sigh.

“Oh man, here she goes,” you say, darting away to crouch behind John like he’s a shield. Jade lets out a disapproving “Dave!” but Rose only sighs again.

“They _are_ the vessel meant for troll ejaculatory purposes,” she says, “but they’re not as menial as _condoms_ , John. They command some kind of fearful erotic reverence or significance from our lovely alien companions, which is why we lucky humans have been saddled with all tasks involving them.”

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” John says, looking at you with the bucket dangling by his side. You straighten up and take a step back, pointing at the bucket with a mock look of horror on your face.

“Sir John! That’s a vessel meant for troll ejaculatory purposes you’re holding!”

John drops the bucket with a look of genuine horror, and Rose rolls her eyes. “They’ve got their own special buckets, of course, known as pails. I’m unimpressed, Dave, that pitiful attempt at a burn was pure plagiary on your part.”

You scoff at her and duck behind Jade when she launches one of her sudsy rubber gloves at you.

For the next week, the prospect of troll condom buckets simply floats around the back of your head, but the following Communal Cleaning Day you end up alone in the very same kitchen where you and your dear friends first had the very same lovely discussion. There’s soap covering half the floor, the chairs are up on all the table, and you’ve got a pair of headphones on blasting one of your old remixes as you get your clean on with a mop like you’re the foodstain antichrist.

Someone clears their throat loud enough to cut through the music only you can hear, and you shut it off, pulling your headphones down to rest around your neck. You’re only too glad to stop listening—you were like the Neville Longbottom of remixes back then, just swinging from a chandelier by your ears without a clue of the raging pixie war of music in real life.

It’s the one and only Karkat Vantas who apparently has the supersonic throat-clearing skills. (You had no sense for the idea of subtlety of volume back then either.)

“Come to get an eyeful?” you smirk, straddling the mop briefly and throwing out a pelvic thrust. 

Karkat lets loose a disdainful snort. “Actually, no, douchebag, I’m here to see if you humans can muster up the brain cells and physical far-from-prowess to do anything right.”

“You’re about to be very, very satisfied, honey,” you deadpan, and he rolls his eyes so hard his head tips back.

“No, bulgemuncher, I’ve got a bet with Terezi that you can’t, and the only reason I even considered betting with her is because I’m absolutely positive you’re going to just fuck everything up in the most majestically shitty way possible.”

“Let me rephrase,” you say. “You are about to be proved very, very wrong, because I am the literal definition of winning at life. When I finally do something wrong, the winged pigs are going to grow tentacles and the sun’s going to bypass blue and turn motherfucking green, believe me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you missed a spot, asswipe,” Karkat says, cocking his head to point with his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the wall. You glance over your shoulder and shit, he’s right. Crossing over to the soapy water-filled bucket, you wet the mop and start on whatever the yellowish green stain is.

There’s absolutely no sound from Karkat, and you glance up at him after a few seconds, because utter compliant silence from him is so rare it might as well be a chupacabra admitting to sucking the blood from a prize racehorse cause it got tired of goats.

He’s holding himself stiff, looking like he’s trying to wipe his face of emotion with every particle of his body, but his eyes are flicking from the bucket to the mop so quickly and his suddenly kind of ragged breathing is audible even from where you’re standing.

You glance from him to the bucket, and it dawns on you like the motherfucking Rapture.

 _Oh_.

You just barely catch a smirk before it emerges on your face and step around the bucket, letting your ankle drag lightly around the edge. When nothing happens over in suppressed-arousal-ville, you bend over completely unnecessarily to rinse the mop and run your hand around the edge before gripping the rim tightly.

Karkat lets out an audible huff, and you can’t stop your smirk, only turn your face away as you stand up again. This is going to be fun.

You touch the bucket now any chance you get, alternating feather-light lingering strokes with grips sometimes so tight you’re white-knuckled. Karkat doesn’t let much slip, but the short, harsh pants and even once a groan that cuts off almost before it even starts are plenty delicious.

When the floor is as sparklingly clean as your thoughts are not, you heft the bucket—there’s a muffled kind of _ghnnk_ from Karkat—and take it over to the sink, pouring the filthy water out with your back to your new victim/fan. It hits the metal of the drain with a splatter, and there’s a clattering kind of scuffle that sounds like a certain over-stimulated troll stumbled and regained his footing. Your grin is wide enough to touch your ears.

Cleaning the bucket is deeply entertaining. Being able to run soap-slick hands over the plain old plastic and barely hear Karkat’s breathing pick up or hitch is ridiculously satisfying. You scrub that bucket to death like it’s a lady of Whitechapel and you’re Jack the Ripper, and when you’re finally done your fingers are pruned and the bucket is this close to literally sparkling.

You give it a final rinse and turn around, casually dangling the bucket from one hand as you approach Karkat. He looks like he’s about two seconds away from embarrassing himself in his pants, flushed and honest-to-God panting as he leans against the wall like it’s the only thing holding him up.

You get right up in his space, so close your noses are nearly touching. You tilt your head, eyes fixed on his half-open mouth behind your shades, and fuck, you can taste his breath. It’s hot and weirdly spicy, and insanely arousing.

Neither of you are moving, but his chest is rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, his face is red, and when you let out a tiny huff of amusement through your nose after an inordinate amount of time, he jumps so goddamn hard that you lose your grip on the bucket and it clatters on the floor and then he lets out a kind of breathy moaning gasp and Karkat Vantas comes right in his goddamn pants, sliding down the wall with his head tipped back and tiny moans and ragged pants slipping from his gritted teeth.

You watch him the entire time, even though he closes his eyes as he’s shaking through it. When he’s finally done—and goddamn, did it take a while—you toe the bucket at your feet so it rattles against the floor, and he gives another shudder, panting through the aftershocks.

“You done?” you say, and he glares up at you through glazed eyes.

“Fuck you,” he gasps out, completely breathless and looking half defiant and half exhausted. “Fuck you with all the fire of a thousand suns and.” He doesn’t manage to get the insult any farther than that, just stops, pants, and tips his head forward. “Fuck. You.”

“Just did,” you say, and stroll out of the room whistling.

* * *

Something is happening here. Everything had been normal, the humans taking care of their gross buckety cleaning duties, the rest of you _kind _of cleaning but mostly just slacking off while Jade wasn’t around to wrangle you into “keeping the place in a state fit for living in!” and then at the end of the day Karkat comes out of the kitchen absolutely soaked, clearly hiding something, and blushing red enough to taste and Dave has been acting unbearably smug, and you just _have___ to know what’s going on here. So you jump him in his own room, leaping onto his bed and pressing up to him as he taps away on his keyboard.

“So!” you say, grinning. He turns to you, and a wave of warm spiced peach happiness washes over you. “Yo, TZ.”

“What’s up with you and Mister Crabapple?”

He stiffens against you, and the clacking stops. “'Scuse me?”

You can taste the candy lime apprehension, and pap him knowingly on the forehead, your grin wider than ever. “I know something happened with you two a couple days ago. Why was he all wet, and why are you so happy about it?”

“No reason,” he blurts, and you giggle at his metallic grapefruit nervousness.

“You, Mister Coolkid, are the most obvious thing that ever happened.” You press a little closer and whisper in his ear, “Did you seduce him? Are you two red now?”

“No! God, Terezi!” He’s brimful of gritty incredulity and high thin anxiety, and you pull away from his ear with a giant smile spreading across your face.

“Yes! You two are so _cute_ , oh my Gog, this is hilarious!”

“Are moirails supposed to interfere in their S.O.’s other quadrants?” he asks, his voice full of sulfur grumpiness, and you rest your head on his shoulder, looping your arm through his. 

“Stop pouting, sweety.” You can feel him scoff at the term of endearment, and smile. “And this moirail wants juicy details!”

“Okay, okay.” He shuts his computer and turns slightly toward you, taking a deep breath in. You release his arm and tuck your legs up under you, tilting your face up to him in eagerness.

He pauses, hesitates some more, then says, “I wound him up with one of your stupid troll sex things and he came in his pants.”

You let out a gleeful hoot/shriek and he clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, yeah, just yell it a little louder, TZ, I think a couple of people in Alaska didn’t hear you.”

You don’t bother asking what Alaska is, only drum an excited tempo on his chest. “Oh my Gog! What custom was it?”

You can feel him look down, and practically taste his raspberry blush. “Buckets. Um, pails.”

“They’re synonyms, goofhead,” you tell him, unable to stop grinning. “He really just came in his pants? Just like that? Did you _watch_ him? Did you kiss him? Are you two red or black?”

“Dammit TZ, slow down.” His deadpan doesn’t fool you, because he’s grinning inside. You can hear it in his voice. “I didn’t kiss him,” and you can _taste_ the regret in his tone, “but yeah, I watched him, and I have no fucking idea whether we’re red or black or even anything and why am I even telling you about this?”

“Because you love me,” you chirp, nestling against his side again.

He snorts, but he doesn’t shove you away. The clacking of his keyboard resumes and you shut your eyes, relaxing against him. He radiates human warmth, blood-warmth pulsing through his skin into yours. You’ve never touched anyone as warm as him, except maybe Karkat. You’re too high up the hemospectrum to ever naturally feel like this.

You must have fallen asleep after a while, because you jolt out of a dream that throws you into wakefulness amidst the shrapnel of an explosion. You’re alone, curled on your side in a warm patch, draped with one of Dave’s motley blankets with your head right where his ass was parked the last time you saw it. You sit up and flick your tongue against the backs of your teeth, and yawn.

Then you roll over onto your back, giggling uncontrollably, as Dave’s confession comes back to you.

Watching those two awkward, incompetent, adorable bastards tap dance around each other in some kind of attempt to fill their quadrants is going to be _awesome_.

* * *

Why is it always like this? Something dramatic and usually embarrassing happens, frequently involving pails, and then you and whoever you’re trying to make a move on or whoever’s trying to make a move on you—however fucked up that move might or might not have been—end up dancing around each other in some kind of snarkily mortified limbo.

It’s at that point when you usually end up going to Kanaya for help, but it’s never about something as cringeworthy as what Dave did. You’re still having a hard time believing that actually happened, but the fresh dream material that keeps cropping up in your limited sleep times are making it very hard to forget or even pretend it didn’t happen.

“KK!”

You jerk out of a half-doze and whip around in your desk chair, eyes still bleary, to meet Sollux’s indignant gaze.

“What the fuck ith up with you, KK?” he demands, “Every one of uth ith tired, but you’re half-athleep even more than the retht of uth.”

Your mouth flaps open and shut for a moment, your brain still bleary. Sollux raises an eyebrow. “Are you even awake now or are you thtill in thome kind of mental dream bubble?”

You’re about to speak when Sollux takes a horrified step back. “Ith it Gamzee? Are you getting back with _Gamzee_ oh holy fuck KK I thought you’d learned your lethon with him, oh man, it’th Gamzee, ithn’t it!”

“No, goddammit, it’s not Gamzee, you bulge-slurping nooksniffer! Where in the actual fuck did that conclusion even come from, anyway, asswipe?”

“Ith it Terezi?” He still looks suspicious, peering at you through his shitty glasses.

“No it is not, mother of fuck, please and thank you.” You stand and rub your eyes, grumbling. “She’s just my friend, you should know this by know. Go have hate-sex with the Prince of Science and Shitty Wands or something. I don’t know.”

“Ith it _Dave_?” The bifurcated moron falls in step beside you as you stomp towards your respiteblock. You need sleep. You never get any good sleep nowadays, without sopor, but the humans’ horizontal cushion sleeping platforms— _beds_ —are marginally effective.

It’s about now that Sollux’s words actually register. You whip around to face him with a growl in your throat, terrified that he might know.

“No it is very well fucking not, you mutant hoofbeast shitstain! What in the actual flabbergasted chucklefuck are you trying to imply! If you don’t just skedaddle right the fuck off this very instant I swear to all the deities I will gnaw off your phalanges and use your own idiotic bifurcated fingernails to saw through your jugular, so help me God, and I will fucking _laugh_ , Captor, I will _shriek_ with mirth as you bleed mustard piss all over the floor, because that is _fucking messed up_.”

“Wow, KK, go to bed,” he says, papping you on the shoulder. The friendliness of the gesture almost makes you turn around and give him a deeply insulting, thickly veiled thank you, until he says “And the whole plathe knowth there’th thomething going on between you and Thtrider, I wath jutht checking to make thure.”

He’d better consider himself lucky you’re to exhausted to chase him down, rip him apart, and make oatmeal out of his auricular sponge clots.

* * *

You wake up in the middle of the night—the soothing darkness against your suffering nocturnal eyes is sweet, sweet relief—with determination in your blood pusher and absolutely no plan in your grasp. You shove yourself to your feet, stagger slightly as your blood runs screaming in circles as it’s violently displaced, and march with a purpose out of your respite block.

You are quite literally opening Dave’s door when it registers in your sleep-deprived, exhausted, and sexually frustrated think pan that you have no idea what you’re going to do once you’re inside. Unfortunately, the door is open by now and fuck it, Dave’s awake and at his husktop and turning to look at you.

“The one and only Karkles,” he says, a half-smile hitching one corner of his mouth up farther than the other. “Come into my humble abode, my home is your home, this land is your land, New York redwoods etc human terminology.”

“That was truly pathetic,” you say, silently relieved and deeply thrown-off and maybe just a tiny bit offended that he’s apparently forgotten all about your little kitchen incident. You cross the room and sit on his bed, searching for something to say, still blinking sleep out of your eyes.

“And why would your glorious visage be awakened from slumber at this wee hour?” he asks you, shutting his human husktop and leaning towards you with his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced together, raising his eyebrows like a “friendly” therapist.

“Only the fact that your mashed-up nookworm of a face was haunting me so badly that I couldn’t be trusted to have a nightmare-free sleep until I’d reassured myself that you were still just as weakly pathetic as usual and completely unable to do anything which would correlate to a decrease in my increasingly unsteady physical and emotional well-being,” you retort, getting back into your stride with relief.

“D’aww, poor widdle Kitkat’s feeling down,” Dave says, making a deeply aggravating kissy-face. “Maybe I can kiss it better.”

“Oh holy fuck that’s disgusting, keep your slavering oral flabby bits away from my person, please and thank you. I’d prefer not to be marked in that particular fucking way, I’d have to bathe my think pan in straight bleach to just scratch the surface of the trauma I’d have suffered.” Your tirade is definitely not meant to cover up your sudden embarrassment at the thought of kissing Dave. You really, _really_ don’t think about _actually_ kissing Dave. Nothing correlating to that subject even contemplates crossing your mind. Nope. Not at all.

“Wow,” Dave says, sitting back and crossing his arms. “With that kind of defensiveness, a guy might get to thinking you really _did_ want my, as you so delicately put it, _slavering oral flabby bits_ all over your fucking person.” He waggles a single eyebrow suggestively.

You flip him off. “You are an idiot.”

“Eloquent, Karkles. I’m almost in tears over here at your superb grasp of the English language. Five stars, acclaimed reviews, all that jazz, shit needs to be published and awarded the Nobel prize.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and not knowing what else to say.

“So,” says Dave. You turn your head slightly, watching him with your eyes narrowed.

“There’s more garbage you feel the need to pour into my think pan? What now?”

“About, um . . . in the kitchen.”

You immediately stiffen. Your heart starts pounding like a fleeing hoofbeast and your face might literally be smouldering. Do you run? It feels like you should run.

You don’t run, and he keeps talking.

“Maybe we should, I don’t know, continue it,” he says, and his voice breaks hilariously on _continue_. You stifle a kind of panicked snigger.

“You are so fucking clueless,” you say, your voice far too high-pitched. “You think something that fucked-up warrants a continuation?”

“I mean, it would get less fucked-up as we continued,” he says, and from what you can see in the light cast from the lamp at the foot of his bed he’s blushing as scarlet as a human face can manage. 

“What you—what happened back there is just about the perviest thing you could have done,” you tell him, barely concealing the tremor of mortification and apprehension and maybe, no not really, actually _definite_ excitement in your voice. “Anyway, I don’t even know if you’re capable of having a relationship that isn’t fucked up to some degree.”

“Fine, fine, okay, I’ll fuck off,” Dave says sharply, rising to his feet and pacing away. He’s almost at the door to his ablution block when you squeak out a single word.

“Wait!”

He stops and glances over his shoulder. “What?”

“Just—I guess, whatever. Lay it on me.” You spread your arms out on a helpless gesture.

Dave laughs a kind of helpless laugh. “Are you kidding me? You actually changed your mind?” He shakes his head disbelievingly and takes a single step towards you. “It’s time for the tentacle pigs to sprout fur and wear tiaras, fuck.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, leaning back on your elbows. “I’m agreeing to your fuck-brained scheme, asswipe. Are you cluckbeast now?”

“Fuck no,” he says and takes five more speed-steps towards you before he trips on your feet, falls on top of you, and kind of smushes his mouth against yours in the known universe’s most ungraceful and awkward kiss.

You push him away slightly with your hands, lightening up the frankly painful pressure, and tease his lips apart with your own. He lets out a shaky breath against your mouth and dabs his tongue against your lower lip. You can’t help your smirk. It’s your turn to have him in your power.

This plan quickly goes to the barkbeasts when five minutes later his hands start sneaking up your shirt. Rubbing soft and hot across your grubscars he manages to coax an actual moan out of you, and you can feel your face flaming as he grinds unashamedly against your hip, his mouth sneaking down to your neck and spreading unfairly arousing kisses there.

You retaliate with the ass grab, and he squeaks against your shoulder as you yank his crotch against yours. You both exhale raggedly as flames maybe literally shoot up in your torso. The feel of his alien junk against yours, even with four layers of clothing in the way, is insanely, unfairly hot.

His hands find your hips and he hitches you farther onto the bed. You snort as he grunts at your weight and shove him up and over until you’re on top, straddling his hips.

“I win,” you say, plucking his shades off his face and slipping them onto yours. He huffs out a surprised breath and grabs your hips, grinding up against you, and you have to shoot out your hands to catch yourself before you return his ridiculously awkward and stupidly endearing first kiss. Instead you press your mouth against his slow and hot, circling your hips, the friction against your junk so delicious it almost makes you moan again. Not quite though. You haven’t sunk that low.

Ten minutes later you’re kneeling on the bed and he’s in front of you yanking your pants down with stupid desperation and you’re panting for his touch, his mouth, _anything_ , and he fucking _stops_.

“You . . . have a cunt.” He looks so dumbstruck, his eyebrows pinched together and his eyes glued to your junk, that you just about choke on air with agony. Your bulge is thrashing against your heaving stomach, and you can feel your nook begging to be filled.

“Get the fuck over it,” you gasp out.

“And a fucking tentacle dong. Tentadong. Karkat, _tentadong_.”

“It’s not going to fucking bite you.” You grab his hand and shove it around your bulge, and _ooohhhhh fuck yes that’s good._

He strokes it slow, careful, and tentative, until you start panting and letting little moans out on purpose and then bucking up into his hand and he starts really going to town and holy fuck it’s amazing.

At some point he gets a finger in your nook, and then another, and now he’s fucking you and jerking you and then his mouth closes over the tip of your bulge and you come with a goddamn shout.

When your vision clears somewhat, Dave’s entire front side is spattered red (good fucking luck he took his shirt off) and his blanket is pretty much a lost cause.

“Karkles,” he says, spitting out a mouthful of splooge in a very unsexy manner, “ow.”

You let his shoulders go with a jolt, let a nervous laugh out, and say, “Ablution trap?”

He grins. “You owe me one.”

He picks you up bridal-style and you squawk but let him carry you to the ablution trap. He turns it on and the moment he turns back to you, you press yourself against him, whispering in his ear “Clothes off,” before giving him a tongue-filled kiss against the side of his neck, just barely digging your teeth into hot shivering human skin.

He lets out a tiny whimper and sheds his pants with speed hitherto unmatched by the human and/or troll race. Before you even glance at his junk you resolve not to be so taken aback as he was, but this determination dissolves at the speed of light as your eyes fall upon . . . whatever the fuck that is.

“What the actual fuck, it’s a sausage,” you say unthinkingly. Something like a laugh forces its way out of Dave’s mouth.

“Wow subtle,” he says, before you grab it and he gasps out something that might be your name, you’re not sure.

“In,” you say, pulling him _by the junk_ towards the ablution trap, and his hand closes around your wrist with a "Holy shit bro it's not a leash, it may look weird but that doesn't mean—"

You tighten your grip around the weirdly warm, taut surface of it, and he breaks off with a kind of whimper and follows you meekly.

Once you’re inside, the hot spray pattering down all around you, you get him all crowded up against a wall and hiss in his ear. “Bottom bitch,” you tell him. “Letting me push you all around. You think you had me in your control? Well fuck that, think again asshole, I’m going to make you fuck me and you’re going to _like it_.”

He gasps against your temple and spins you around, hoisting you up so you’re pinned between the cold tile wall and his lean body. His hand snakes between you and he adjusts his sausage dong so it’s pressing against the entrance of your nook, and _hell fucking yes_ it’s a whole damn lot more agile than a sausage when he’s using it like this. Your bulge is presently taking a definite interest in the situation.

He inches into you, tiny hip-swivels pushing himself deeper into your nook, until he’s fully seated and you feel so fucking full in the best way possible.

When he starts moving, you actually start moaning, and you know you’re going to have bruises, both on your back where he’s slamming your ass into the shower wall and on your thighs where he’s gripping hard enough to leave marks, but you relish each and every flash of pleasure and pain, and when he comes inside you the noise he makes against your neck is worth every single bit of every aggravation and annoyance he’s ever caused you.

Turns out post-coital Dave is clingy, cuddly, dead tired and against the notion of you sleeping anywhere that is not his bed with his entire stupidly sexy and annoyingly adorable self.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering making this a series of oneshots, each one a different ship, in which case old titles would be swapped and new ones created. Let me know what you think about that in the comments below, as well as critique and requests for new stories!


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